


In The Dark

by Notsyrups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, will add as story progresses - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-24 12:51:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18165428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notsyrups/pseuds/Notsyrups
Summary: “How is she?”Jon sighs, his expression turning dark. “I wish this was all over, I’m not built for political nonsense,” he looks at her and smiles again, “not like you.”--In which Jon told Sansa of his plans before he left, and they struggle together when he gets back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first Jonsa fic, and although I'm not totally THRILLED with my writing, I'm in a zone and know where the story will be headed. This fic will not be dany bashing (though I'm not her biggest fan) and will go with political!jon. Undercover Lover is an amazing plot for Jon that I hope to continue to write for.

It’s night, the candlelight flickering off dark grey walls are the only light Sansa has as she walks through the castle. Not that she needed light, she knew every twist and turn through the walls of Winterfell like the back of her hand, she could walk it blindly if needed.

Tonight, Sansa walks the halls, tracing the stones with small fingers as she strolls. She cannot get the image of Jon out of her mind, Jon and the Dragon Queen who stands beside him at every meeting. She shouldn’t care, she knows this. Daenerys, although unwelcome, has been kind since her arrival a few weeks ago. Jon has been distant, but that is to be expected given his newfound demotion from King in the North to Warden.

Sansa pouts, and places her hands on a windowsill, peering out into the great white fields stretching beyond the grounds of Winterfell. Jon told her of the wight hunt, how Daenerys’ child died saving him. He owes her, and the Wall will fall sooner than they’d thought.

Sansa only hopes their closeness ends with the war.

Jon finds her then, standing at the window, face half lit in the moonlight. “Sansa…” he calls. His voice calling her name so sweetly, like he did before he lay with the Dragon Queen. His hand envelops hers, and she steps aside so he can look out the window too. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

She throws a look his way, regarding him through thick eyelashes. “Seems you can’t either.” He gives her a small smile and squeezes her hand to confirm. They stand together that way, just them and the howl of the wind, for what seems like both an eternity and no time at all.

It’s Sansa who decides to break the silence, asking him about Daenerys: “How is she?”

Jon sighs, his expression turning dark. “I wish this was all over, I’m not built for political nonsense,” he looks at her and smiles again, “not like you.” She laughs then too. No, Jon is meant for swords and war rooms, for the heat of battle where you lay emotions bare. Not for the scheming and lying, the hidden threats laced behind pretty words. Jon’s deception skills are very keen, as Sansa has come to know. Before he left for Dragonstone, Jon told her his plan.

“Remember Ygritte?” he started one night.

From Sansa’s seat across the hearth from him, she looked up from her needlepoint. “Yes, you’ve mentioned her… what about her?”

“I became,” Jon shifted, “intimate with her, for reasons not entirely my own.” Sansa stiffened, scared of the implications. “I mean – I had to lie and make her believe we were on the same side.” She relaxed, she saw where this was going.

“What if I do the same thing with Daenerys?” he offers. Sansa places her work to the side, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt. Her brow furrows, and she looks up at Jon who is staring at her, questioningly.

“You would bed her?”

“I would _deceive_ her.” He says, “If she is as unwilling to help as you and Davos lead me to believe… won’t I need to be,” he stumbles, waving a hand in the air, “more _you?_ ”

Sansa throws up a brow.

“I mean- more politically minded! I would need to get her on my side, no matter what. Since we need her. You would do that.” He worries his lower lip between his teeth, and she sees he wants her approval.

“It’s not the _worst_ idea.” She offers. His gaze turns serious, and his eyes harden. “Jon, you fell in love with Ygritte though, how do I know this won’t happen with Daenerys.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” He looks off to the side. Sansa nods curtly, of course she doesn’t. His heart will always belong to Ygritte. Sansa folds her hands neatly in her lap.

“We will need to have a small council of people who know. You, me, Davos… Sam, perhaps?” Sansa looks up, and Jon nods.

“Sam is my best friend and knows me better than most. We need him to be on board and know that I’m faking so he can convince others.” With a huff, Sansa stands, and Jon mirrors.

“It’s time to turn in,” Sansa says, and Jon kisses her cheek like he does every night, bows his head, and exits the room.

A month later when Sansa receives the raven that Jon has bent the knee, she exhales a sigh of relief.

Now, Jon smiles forcefully. He puts the mask back on as quickly as he took it off. Jon lets go of her hand, and steps forward to kiss her cheek. “Try to get some sleep, sister.” He fades away into the dark corridor, leaving her once more in the night.

She stays for a bit longer, letting the cool air hit her face. She thinks on Littlefinger, and how proud he’d be of her. That terrifies her, that she still thinks of his approval, thinks what he’d advise. She knows she’s better than that, but the game is yet to be won. Gods be damned if she let Daenerys be that winner. She turns on her heel and traces the cool stones back to her chambers. The flickering flames from the torches ignite the shades of red in her hair, giving her a copper crown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Sansa's midnight chat with Jon, she finds herself busier than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to quickly thank you all for the reception of this! I know it doesn't seem like much, but the kudos mean a lot to me! I hope my writing doesn't bother you all too much.

Stretching out amongst the furs of her bed, Sansa slowly opens her eyes as the fresh morning sun shines through. With a groan, she props herself up on her elbows, scanning the room around her. She’d been out in the halls so late the night before, it was honestly a miracle she awoke with the sun at all.

She grabs her dressing gown from a nearby chair, wrapping it around her torso. She makes her way to her window, opening the shutters. Her eyes squeeze shut from the flood of light, but after a moment (and a rather embarrassing long yawn) Sansa adjusts. The day will be long, she knows this already. But as always, there is much to be done in Winterfell.

A small while later, Sansa finds herself dressed and walking down the familiar path to the dining hall. Greeting her during the walk, different Lords attempt to catch her favor and attention for their problems, handing her scrolls upon scrolls. She casts each away with the same poise and grace, asking for them to wait until she may receive them later, but takes each of the documents, nonetheless. In Jon’s absence, she had slaved over various complaints for hours, trying to placate each of Jon’s fickle bannermen while avoiding favoritism. It was draining. She had hoped once he returned, he could share the burden as King. However, he returned Warden of the North. So, the responsibilities as the Lady of Winterfell were hers to bear alone.

She sat in the dining hall perched on the seat to Jon’s right. Daenerys sat to his left, and Sansa hated her for it. It had been her seat, but she hadn’t the energy to complain over who sits where, Daenerys was a Queen, so Sansa counted herself lucky that Jon still sat at the head of the table at all. Sansa took to worrying over complaints given to her rather than eating. She had brought some work from her chambers, things to ask Jon about and clear with him. She placed a hand on Jon’s arm to grab his attention.

“The glass gardens are nearing completion,” she tells him. His head turns in her direction slightly, his eyes trained on the report.

“That’s some good news, at least.” He chides, pointing at Sansa’s stack of papers. She sighs, and nods.

“Yes, at least we do not need to worry about that plan, however,” she digs through the stack, fingering through pages until a small “hah” escapes her lips. “However,” she repeats, “the leather for the armor?” She smacks her lips, “running scarce.” The supply left over from Robb’s days as King are running low, and with the newfound bone-chilling temperatures, there was no way there were enough cattle left to utilize… not without meat spoiling in favor of better insulated armor. What use is the leather when your men die of starvation long before battle?

Jon takes the parchment as she holds it out for him, scanning it. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I’ll think of something.” Sansa says, already signing off on some complaints about rations.

“You always do,” Jon laughs, and places the parchment next to her. Daenerys calls his name, and just like that Jon’s attention is taken away. Sansa eyes the two of them, and watches Daenerys’ hand slide up Jon’s arm, her eyes glistening as she speaks.

\------

After the long day, meetings with the young Lady Karstark and Lord Umber to discuss their houses fealty and what resources they had still. Alys had some iron and some other raw materials to offer to help with the weapons, and Little Ned had fumbled around, saying that the Umber had some extra leather, and would see how much they would be able to spare. Nodding, Sansa excused herself to continue on her retinue of endless duties. She hopes to find Arya, but for the next hour she is stopped again and again by the other items of importance on her list.

The Maester stops her, placing a wrinkled hand on her arm. She tries to suppress the instinct to jump out of her skin and run, and instead gives him a tight-lipped smile as he updates her on the Dothraki and Unsullied camped outside the walls of Winterfell. She nods feverishly, trying to speed up the conversation once the needed details were already out in the open. Yes, I get it, they’re taking up resources, let me get back to work so I can make sure we have enough!

She stops at the blacksmiths, after Gendry flags her down to talk about the variety of weapons he needed to get his men to make. She tells him with as much confidence she can muster that she would get back to him, making a mental note to ask Arya or Jon about weapons later. Gods know she has no fucking clue about the different types of swords there are. Gendry had a hammer, what is that even used for? Sansa rubs her temples, walking the yard.

Arya is in the training yard when Sansa finds her at last. Sansa had placed Arya in charge of finding recruits with potential and training a squadron of her own. Arya is showing some small girl how to water dance, a crowd of around 20 other recruits watching.

“Ah- Lady Stark!” A red-haired boy exclaims, bowing way further down than needed. Arya stops the lesson and turns to her sister.

“Sansa,” she smirks, “don’t tell me you’re here to learn the sword?”

Quickly Sansa shakes her head and puts a hand up, “don’t flatter yourself, sister.” The girls share a smile, before Arya sheaths Needle, nodding to her class before joining Sansa for a while. “I wanted to ask how the class is going, though.”

“Ah, some of them are naturals, that girl Alysanne? May rival me one day.” She smirks in her general direction. “But hopefully when the time comes, they’ll all be right fighters.” Arya stops, turning to face Sansa. “That’s not all you came to ask about, is it?”

Sansa shakes her head, “I was wondering what you thought about what number of men we should keep at Winterfell.” Arya looks down and away, counting in her mind. “I figure we can’t leave no one here during the fight, and too many would be a waste.” She always went to Arya when it came to killing numbers, Jon always insisted a high number stay in Winterfell, but Sansa thought a handful would be good enough. She needed to ensure Winterfell would not fall, especially with refugees relying on them. But keeping so many men here when they are needed elsewhere would not only tax resources, but cost lives at the Wall.

“I’d have to see how many men we have in general,” Arya says, “I would think 50 to be more than enough,” she places a hand to her lip, “50 able-bodied soldiers, maybe the less experienced yet skilled?” Arya looks at her sister, who is already nodding.

“I’ll compile a list,” Sansa says, her face betraying her since it’s just going to be more work for her to do. Arya holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“I’ll do the list, Sansa. You don’t know soldiers like I do.” She gives Sansa a small salute and walks backwards a few steps, turning on her heel quickly to walk the rest of the way back to her class. The girl Alysanne, who Arya had been fighting with, raises her sword to the ready. Sansa hadn’t seen that look since Arya was a little girl. She smiles to herself and continues through the castle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys pays Sansa a visit, some minor power plays happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been like 5 or 6 days since I last uploaded, and I'm really sorry! Work gets hectic and such - this chapter and the next will be the last of some story building as next chapter will be a parentage reveal. Daenerys is decidedly difficult for me to write.  
> Thank you all for your support!

Daenerys stuck out in the North more so than Jon would in the South. Her attire was entirely too intricate for Northerner tastes, her speech too formal. Where Sansa’s braids were practical, Daenerys’ was plaited ornately, like a crown.

This is not to say that Daenerys hadn’t been surprisingly kind to Sansa for the entirety of her stay thus far. Sansa almost wished the foreign queen had been hostile, it would make it so much easier to hate her. It’s not a sickly sweetness Daenerys lays on the Lady of Winterfell, but it makes Sansa’s skin crawl, nevertheless.

Sansa sat in her solar, threading together some leather for the soldiers’ armor. She liked to help where she could, Gods know that Arya would never be able to sew her name let alone clothing with any structural integrity. A soft knock at the door later, and Sansa stood abruptly as Daenerys herself walked in with no Jon, no Missandei, no anyone.

“Oh, Lady Sansa, please,” Daenerys motioned for her to sit back down, and she did so hesitantly. Daenerys sat across from her, gloved hands folding neatly in her lap.

“Your Grace, what may I do for you?”

“I would speak to you as if we were sisters.” Sansa’s brow twitched at the implication but nodded.

The queen looked around the room, settling in on the fireplace burning betwixt them. “You know, Sansa, I’ve never had a sister. I had brothers, Rhaegar and Viserys, but they’re gone now.” Her violet eyes dart to Sansa, “you’ve lost brothers as well.”

Sansa simply nods. Her gaze as cold as the winter air. “War has taken much from us all, Y- Daenerys.”

“It has indeed. My journey to Westeros has been full of trials and tribulations. I know nothing of your time other than Jon tells me you’ve suffered as well,” she starts, testing out the limits to where Sansa would go.

“My first husband, Khal Drogo, no matter how fond I grew of him, bought me from Viserys. Raped me, even.” Sansa nods, the lingering feeling of Ramsay brushing against her neck with the wind. “He became vegetative, I put him out of his misery. I was pregnant, and lost my child, then my dragons became my babes.”

“My children were always coveted, Sansa, and sometimes stolen. Viserion died.” Her gaze turns to stone, her dark brows narrowing. “I’ve always had to fight for my birthright, for everything I wanted.”

The room seemed to heat up throughout the discussion, with Daenerys details aspects of her journey. Sansa only nodded and said small words of affirmation to coax Daenerys into talking.

Eventually, Daenerys stops, her fingers drumming nervously against the seat. It was unlike the queen to be so nervous, so informal. Sansa had only to guess why.

“When I take the Iron Throne, I intend to marry again.”

Sansa closes her eyes, her guess to as where this was headed was correct, “as the head of your family, Lady Sansa, I would have your blessing to marry your brother, Jon. I won’t take him from you unless you’ve consented. Women in this world never get a say- not with me. I would have us be friends.”

It is Sansa’s turn to stare into the flames, wishing she could escape this conversation. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the fondness we have for each other, and that is rare to find in a marriage, don’t you agree?” Sansa nods slowly. All at once her world crumbles around her, she knows she cannot deny a dragon her prey, not without becoming a charred meal. She will lose her home yet again.

“Forgive, me, Your Grace, have you asked Jon about this yet?”

Her back straightened from formality, she starts “I… I’ve brought it up to him.”

“Whatever Jon desires, I will support.” Sansa gives a rather diplomatic answer, Littlefinger would have been proud. She places her work beside her, standing tall, quicker than she intended. “It is late, Your Grace, and I must retire.”

She opens the door wide, and Daenerys stands too, nodding her head in a small bow. She knows her place is above Sansa, these submissive behaviors do not fool the Northerner at all.

No, Daenerys cannot fool her. After all, she’s an outsider. Her attire was entirely too intricate for Northerner tastes, her speech too formal, her braids too much like a crown.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran throws a party - in which the parentage reveal goes about as well as can be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear God I need to go to bed. Night shift wrecks the body, you know?  
> I figured if I didn't pump this chapter out now, it might be another week before I would have the energy.  
> This isn't my BEST work, but I do not think it's my worst.
> 
> Also, I re-formatted the first chapter, now that I know how Ao3's posting system works!   
> As always, thank you for your support!

Bran calls upon them, all of them. Sansa is surprised to find Sam in the room, standing slightly behind Bran’s chair, a large book in hand. Arya props herself up on the desk on the far side of the room. Sansa supposes that Arya rather look upon discussions rather than be a part of one. Sansa sits across from Bran, her gloves fingers flexing against the wooden armrests nervously. They all are sitting in silence. Jon is late.

Bran is looking away into an unknown corner of _something._ Arya huffs and takes out a knife and picks her nails with it, which earns her a sharp look from Sansa. She mirrors it with one of her own and continues anyways. Sansa grimaces at her. Sam clears his throat, and Sansa’s attention is cut away from her sister to the door, where Jon is standing.

He looks tired, Sansa notices. He lays his eye on her and closes the door behind him without looking away. “Oh,” he says, and the corners of his mouth curl into a grin, “didn’t know this was a party, Bran.” Sansa’s nervousness melts away, her grip on the chair loosening. It does not go unnoticed. Arya’s eyes move slowly from her cuticles to Jon, and then to Sansa. He sheaths her knife, and clasps her hands in front of her quickly, and with a sharp _thwap._

The pair look at Arya, quickly snapped from whatever moment they might’ve been having. Arya’s thick brows were cocked, a smirk playfully dancing across her lips. She nods her head towards Bran, and Jon shuffles to the chair made ready beside Sansa.

“Bran,” Sam starts, “How should we-“

“I know who your mother is, Jon.” A hush falls over the room. Jon’s eyes open wide, and Sansa looks over at him cautiously.

“Okay, that’s one way,” Sam says, fingering to a page in the book he was holding.

“Wh-What? Wait,” Jon holds a hand up, “What?” He says again, his Stark grey eyes flittering between his siblings. “Who?”

“Our Aunt, Lyanna Stark,” Bran says, and Jon’s face pales.

Sam buts in – “Um,” Jon’s ghostly features look wearily up to Sam, “That’s not all Bran.”

“Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.” The room let out a breath.

“Fuckin’ seriously?” Arya leans in, pushing herself from the desk. Sansa hisses out her name quickly, and Arya raises a finger to silence her. “Bran, are you serious? Jon’s not our brother, but our _cousin?_ ”

“Cousin,” Jon repeats, a lock of his dark hair falling in front of his face as he leans his head down into his hands. Arya quickly paces over to him, placing her hands around Jon’s shoulders.

“You’re my brother, Jon. No matter what. Rhaegar Targaryen can hang.” Jon gives her a half-smile, grateful.

“So, I’m not a Snow, but a,” he fumbles, thinking, “A Sand?”

Sam perks up, opening the book quicker than he meant to, “Actually! It’s quite lovely really – Gilly found it you see,” Sansa looks over to Sam, who’s round cheeks flush red, “Lyanna and Rhaegar were married. Secretly. His marriage to Elia was annulled.” Jon looked quickly to Sansa, finding something, _anything_ in her face that may tell him this doesn’t mean what he thinks it does.

Sansa reaches her hands out to Sam, who places the large ledger into her grasp gently. She pulls it close to her, scanning over the lines. The penmanship seemed authentic, the loop around the “y” in Lyanna and the “g” in Rhaegar bleeding through the tan of the parchment, aged with time.

“Sansa,” Jon breathes, and his hand itches to reach for her. _Please tell me this isn’t what I think!_

“You’re not only our cousin,” she starts carefully, “but the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.” He bands the armrest of his chair. She won’t look at him. “Your claim is stronger than Daenerys’.”

“To Hell with the Iron Throne, Sansa!” Jon yells, standing quickly. The chair he sat in squeaks harshly against the floor. She does not move, her eyes reading and re-reading the line in the book confirming his legitimacy. Her mind races to figure out the pieces in the Game, and what will fit where. Jon is pacing the room behind her, wringing his hands together.

Arya looks at him and can only imagine the bruises he will get from pressing so hard. She opens her mouth, taking a deep breath in, her gaze pulled from Jon to Bran. “Can you tell us more?” Bran nods absently, and regales the story of the Tower of Joy, and how Lyanna and Rhaegar were in love. She was not raped, in fact she went willingly. Bran’s eyes shifted to Jon, who sat at the foot of Bran’s bed, his thumb pressing into his wrist hard.

“Your mother named you Aegon.” Jon and Arya scoffed at the same time. “She asked Father to protect you from King Robert.”

Sansa finally looks up from the book. “So that’s why Jon was raised in Winterfell?” Bran nods. Sansa’s mind looked back to her memories of Jon as a young boy. She felt another pang of guilt at how she and her mother treated him. She loved him, truly, and this revelation made her more guilty. How could they have known? Why did it even make a difference?  Sansa lazily turns the book to hold in one hand, holding it out for Sam. He takes the book back from Sansa, standing farther back from Bran, and he turns through the book on his own. Sansa felt so bad that the Tarly had to be here for this discussion.

A silence falls over the room, the only noise being the turning of the thick pages of the Maester’s diary Sam holds.

Suddenly, Sansa stands. A movement that jars everyone but Bran from their thoughts. “Well, now that we all know this, we need a plan of action. There was a reason Father kept it from us, and there is reason still to not let this be common knowledge.” Jon’s thumb stills, and he looks up at her.

“What do we do? You’re the politician.”

Sansa nods, and it is her turn to pace. _Daenerys will burn him, and us, if she were to find out. Maybe not if it was a controlled burn so to speak – no she would still rather he be dead no matter what love they bore another. Marriage? No, the last Targaryens would never have northern suppo- Ah!_

She turns on her heel, pointing to Jon. “Marry me.”


End file.
